


Two Men in a Room

by zeldadestry



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:11:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Russell gets almost to the edge, the edge of not caring, not giving a shit, of just going after Guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Men in a Room

**Author's Note:**

> The film was "L.A. Confidential"

Sometimes Russell gets almost to the edge, the edge of not caring, not giving a shit, of just going after Guy, shoving him up against the wall, getting a hand on his cock and just taking, damn their director and screenwriter sitting before them, he does everything else in front of an audience, why not fucking?

And just when he’s there, desire and rage indistinguishable from each other, crashing around inside him, crushing all rational thought, Guy’s eyes will widen, and his lips will part, he’ll turn towards Russell and that hint of submission, of ‘you can have anything you want, because you know what, here’s my secret, I want it, too,’ will drag him back to reality, to the room they inhabit, the era, the men they actually are, actors, not cops.

They’re staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, and sometimes they see each other in the morning at breakfast, or at night, both of them happening to end up in the bar just before closing time, slamming down shots, because that’s what Russell does, and Guy seems determined to prove he can keep up.

The thing about drinking too much, and the only reason Russell knows this (because he’ll never admit anything about himself, only about the people he’s paid to pretend to be) is from playing characters who do, is that it creates the best plausible deniability, a perfect excuse. Couldn’t help it, you can’t blame me, it’s not something I would ever otherwise do, but, hey, I was drunk! So he lets the freedom settle over him, lets his body lean against Guy’s as they ride in the elevator, back upstairs to their rooms. Guy’s got his lower lip between his teeth, a gesture more Exley than Pearce, and Russell thinks, ok, so that’s how you want it? We can do that, no problem. He doesn’t lunge in, like he wants to, doesn’t grab and take, he just stares, trapped animal focused on nothing but the prey just out of reach. He can see Guy knows exactly what effect he’s having, watches him fight away the smile threatening to force its way across his face.

The bell dings, the doors slide open, and Guy steps forward, walks down the carpeted hall, and Russell follows, just a step behind. Outside his room, Guy searches his pockets for his keys and Russell takes advantage of the pause, looms over him like a threat. Guy twitches, lets his hand tremble as he unlocks the door, and momentary envy shoots through Russell. “How do you do that?” he says, without even thinking, and cringes after he does. Guy doesn’t answer, just turns around and grabs onto Russell’s wrist. He backs into his room, pulling Russell along with him.

Guy doesn’t turn on the lights, doesn’t need to, because the dark is better. Night is safe in a way day can never be. They don’t have to choose roles in the dark, know who they are, who the other is, they just have to be, and it’s no surprise to find Guy’s hand on his lower back, drawing him closer.

“Yeah?” Russell says, and Guy’s hand slides down, over his ass. “Yeah?” he says, again, because he wants to hear Guy speak, wonders what words he’ll say, what accent he’ll be using, but all he gets is a lifted chin, Guy’s neck bared. He’ll take it. What he wants now, so different from those afternoons rehearsing, is not taking and having, but learning, knowing, how Guy smells, what he tastes like. He nuzzles his nose against Guy’s throat, inhales deep, his tongue presses out from between his lips, drags slowly up heated skin, again and again, already addicted, first to the salt of his sweat, then to the flavor underneath.

Guy clings like he counts on Russell to hold him up, be his protector from gravity. “Fuck, yeah,” he hisses when Russell bites him, and grins when he’s pushed down to his bed.


End file.
